Special Providence
by Quentin2
Summary: While the team investigates a series of murders mimicking a famous cold case, Reid follows a lead to L.A. and Garcia frets over Morgan's growing attachment to Tamara Barnes. Mostly casefic, but with an interspersing of romance as the story progresses.
1. The Fall of a Sparrow

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own Criminal Minds. I just like to borrow the characters from time to time. _

_**Author's Notes:** This story takes place in the October following my other story, Requiem. Apart to some references at the beginning of this chapter, I don't think you'll need to have read Requiem to read this one. Of course, if you want to go back and read that one too, I'm not going to stop you. :) Also, the "historical" murder of Faye Reynolds is complete invention but, sadly, the murder of Elizabeth Short is not. _

_I hope you enjoy. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! :) _

* * *

Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special  
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,  
'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be  
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the  
readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he  
leaves, what is't to leave betimes?

-Hamlet, V. ii. 211-215

_**CHAPTER ONE:**_

_The Fall of a Sparrow_

On a beautiful fall morning in mid-October, Penelope Garcia was unnerved. No, perhaps a better description of her state of mind was preoccupation, she thought. She had no right be preoccupied, she chastised herself. She was debuting her newest sundress today, a confection of pink and powder blue, and completed the ensemble with fresh pink streaks in her hair and chunky heels. In fact, she was quite pleased with her appearance and was eager to see how the team – no, how _he_ – would react. The weather was nice, the weekend had passed without a call into work and she had a new outfit, but she was still antsy, as she had been since the BAU had encountered Tamara Barnes.

Garcia wandered into the bullpen. It was still fairly early and she doubted that anyone would be here. Nevertheless, the movement helped her feel a little less cagey, so she stalked through the glass doors into the BAU to find young Dr. Spencer Reid perusing the _Washington Post_ at his desk.

"Well, hello there," Garcia said with false cheer and bravado, joining him at his desk. "You're here early."

Reid looked up from the paper and smiled at her. "I was up early and decided I would come in. I could read at home, or I could read here. What about you?"

Garcia shrugged. "It's tough to stay away from this place."

"Indeed," he said slowly. Reid narrowed his eyes, analyzing her.

Garcia could practically see the gears turning in his head, so she decided it was time to change the subject. "I'm so glad the rain let up," she said. "I'm not ready for winter yet." Today's sunshine had ended a weekend of torrential downpours 40-degree weather.

Reid nodded, but wasn't fooled. "Take a seat." He jerked his chin in the direction of Prentiss' desk and her chair. "You seem a little on edge, Garcia. Is everything okay?"

Garcia rolled her eyes. "Profilers. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

Reid smirked. "I would have thought that after so many years working together, you would have realized that we pick up on everything. So what's up?"

A sigh. "You can't breathe a word of this to _anyone._"

"You know I wouldn't."

Garcia opened her mouth to speak when she noticed which the section of the paper Reid had been perusing. She blinked. "Since when do you read the sports section?"

Reid followed her gaze to the paper, open to coverage of yesterday's Redskins game. A deep blush bloomed across his cheeks. "Well…I…you know," he stammered.

"Oh Reid," Garcia said, knowing that she couldn't tell him what she was thinking and expect him to understand. Reid had more in common with Morgan now than Garcia cared to admit. She reached for the paper. "I don't think she's in here."

"I know," he murmured.

"Did you see her? I mean, was she even here?" Reid looked away but he grew even redder and Garcia grinned. "Oh my God! What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Of course something happened! You wouldn't be beet red if nothing happened."

"What happened to who now?" Morgan and Prentiss had arrived together in the bullpen, catching the tail-end of Garcia's comment.

"Nothing! Nothing happened to anyone," Reid snapped, collecting the paper.

"I think the genius doth protest too much," Prentiss laughed.

Garcia snatched the sports section out of Reid's grasp and proffered it to Morgan. "The Patriots were in town this weekend," she said.

"Ah, yes," Morgan said, eyes glittering with good humor. It was these brief moments that made Garcia's day: before the work day officially started, Morgan wasn't BAU Section Chief, he was just one of the team, joking with Reid. Garcia missed their witty banter over the phone while working on cases and knew she would never truly be able to call him "sir" with a completely straight face. There was no denying that Morgan was a natural leader, but Garcia couldn't wait for Hotch to resume his duties. Something within the order of the team, something seemed out of line.

Morgan was opening the paper with excessive flourish. "Yes, the Patriots delivered an exceptional beat down of our struggling home team," he said, smirking. "But, I wonder, Reid, was the lovely Lena Lopez here with her team?"

"She was, though he won't admit it," Garcia said.

"Guys, come on," Prentiss interjected. "Let him be. Anyway, we're profilers. We'll figure it out soon enough." She turned away to start making a pot of coffee.

"What about our moratorium on profiling one another?" Reid demanded, the slightest note of anxiety creeping into his voice.

"Ooh. I see," Morgan nodded. He returned the paper to Reid and chuckled. Even Prentiss was hiding a smile as she tinkered with the coffee machine.

Garcia wrinkled her brow. "What do you see? What's going on?"

"I'll tell you later, baby girl," Morgan promised.

Reid glowered at them and made his way over to the coffee pot, pretending to be exceedingly interested in finding his mug. "It's not like it's any of your business anyway," he whispered to no one in particular.

A few moments later, J.J. whisked into the bullpen, a file clutched to her chest. "I just got off the phone with D.C.," she said, oblivious to the slight tension in the room. "I've got a new case. They want us up there ASAP. Where are Hotch and Rossi?"

"They're not here yet," Morgan said. He snapped to attention and Garcia felt a pang of disappointment. AllBusinessMorgan was back.

J.J. nodded and dropped into an empty chair, sighing.

"Bad one?" Prentiss asked. She handed J.J. a mug of freshly-brewed coffee.

"Yeah, pretty bad." J.J. turned slightly in her chair, looking for Reid. "Hey, Reid?"

"J.J.?"

"Tell your girlfriend that that last touchdown was a little gratuitous."

Even Morgan broke into laughter at that comment and Reid blanched. "She's not my girlfriend," he growled, emptying another sugar packet into his own coffee mug.

Hotch arrived within five minutes and Rossi was right behind him so the entire team adjourned to the conference room for briefing. Reid slumped into his seat between Rossi and Hotch, feeling somewhat safe flanked by the only two team members who hadn't been ribbing him about Lena. He let his mind wander back to their conversations over the weekend. Lena had admitted to him that she wasn't adjusting to life as successfully as she had hoped, though she had been trying to hide this fact from her employers with limited success.

J.J. cleared her throat. "As I mentioned to some of you, D.C. metro P.D. called me up this morning with this case and they want us to get started as soon as possible." A picture of a young woman with long curling brown hair flashed up on the screen at the front of the room. "The body of Tabitha Lawrence was found in the East Potomac Park three days ago." J.J. paused again to bring up another picture. Garcia turned away, wincing." "She had been stripped down to her underwear. Her throat had been severed so violently that her head was almost completely detached from her body. Her hands and feet were removed and were not found at the scene. Most curious was what the killer had carved into her stomach." A third picture appeared on screen: the word TRAITOR etched in sharp strikes across the victim's abdomen.

Reid gasped. "Oh, wow."

Rossi turned. "Does that mean something to you, Reid?"

"Maybe." He blinked and leaned forward, evaluating the pictures. "That looks like the Faye Reynolds crime scene."

"Faye Reynolds? That name sounds familiar," Prentiss said. "A cold case?"

Reid nodded. "From the forties. Faye Reynolds was a young woman murdered during the summer of 1947 in L.A. The murder didn't receive quite as much media attention as the Black Dahlia murder earlier that year, but it shared a number of characteristics with that killing, including taunting notes sent to the LAPD and a distinct, extremely violent MO. Some people thought that Faye Reynolds' killer and Elizabeth Short's killer were the same person, although they could never explain why the killer would have altered his style so drastically. But anyway, Faye Reynolds' body was found in much the same condition, down to the word 'traitor' on her body."

"The Black Dahlia – like the movie from a few years ago?" Morgan asked.

"Exactly. Elizabeth Short – famously called the Black Dahlia after her death – was found in a field, her body cut in two and drained of blood. Her face was also severely mutilated. Elizabeth Short and Faye Reynolds shared a number of similar victimology traits, including aspirations to be an actress and the penchant for never residing in the same place for long. But a number of rumors circulated about Short after her death which weren't true, and Faye Reynolds also seems to match a number of those traits. For example, Short was rumored to be a call girl and Reynolds was one without a doubt. It almost seems like the Reynolds killing was a gruesome copy-cat murder and the killer picked a girl who matched the Short invented by the press, not the actual murdered woman."

"So, you're telling me that this murder mimics that of an L.A. starlet that's over sixty years old?" Morgan asked.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"There's more," J.J. said. Another woman's face flashed before them. This woman had blonde hair so light, it was almost white and small, intense gray-blue eyes. Her face was twisted into a scowl but still managed to appear vaguely familiar. "Neve Williams. Her body was found by her roommate in their Logan Circle townhouse last night, similarly arranged."

"Why take the hands and feet, I wonder," Prentiss mused. "The first girl was left in a park, yes, but this victim was left in her own house. It's not like the unsub is trying to erase their identities. He doesn't destroy their faces either."

"Traitor," Hotch read, considering the photos. "A traitor to what? Or to whom?"

"J.J., have the police found any connection between the two victims?" Rossi asked.

J.J. shook her head. "Not yet. Tabitha Lawrence has a rap sheet – prostitution – and Neve Williams is the youngest daughter of a senator from Tennessee."

"That's it!" Prentiss exclaimed. "I thought she looked familiar. She's Senator Williams' daughter."

"A debutante and a prostitute," Rossi said. "That's an odd combination."

"I don't know," Reid replied. "Traditionally, the whole point of a debut is to introduce a young woman to society and parade her in front of eligible bachelors, hoping the richest one of them will eventually 'purchase' her from her family by offering the family access to the greatest wealth possible. I mean, isn't that the motif of every Jane Austen book?"

J.J., Prentiss and Garcia all shot him dark looks and Hotch hurried to speak before a verbal brawl broke out over the merits of _Pride and Prejudice_. "But do you think the unsub made the leap from prostitution to debutante balls? And it is something of a leap."

"He's clearly angry," Rossi said. "It takes an incredible force to sever the human head from the body and the pictures make it look like he did it in one blow. Only someone with an extreme amount of anger could produce that kind of force in one movement."

"He considers these women traitors," Morgan continued. "Maybe he feels that the act of prostitution is the treacherous act. Maybe he believes in old-fashioned gender roles – women are supposed to be demure, not sexual beings."

"He seems to have trouble with the archetypes of the virgin and the femme fatale," Reid said. "The virgin often appears as a blonde, blue eyed girl who is docile and subservient. The femme fatale is dark haired and sexually aggressive, often putting men ill at ease. That fits with his MO too. In the 1940s the noir was a popular film and fiction convention and the femme fatal was one of, if not the most common thread in the noir style. So perhaps he feels a kinship with Faye Reynolds' murderer. He 'likes his style,' so to speak – dispatching prostitutes. After all, Reynolds was a call girl and Elizabeth Short had a bad reputation, at the very least."

"Then why not copy the Black Dahlia killing?" J.J. asked.

"That killing took a lot of time and effort – the body had to be cut completely in half and all the blood drained out. It would require a lot of privacy as well. This MO is a lot quicker and conveys practically the same message," Reid replied.

"I'd say it screams it," Rossi said dryly.

"Okay, guys, let's head out," Morgan said. "Hotch, I want you, Reid and Prentiss to go to the latest crime scene and see what you can find. Rossi, you and J.J. are with me. I want to talk with the lead detective and see if we can learn anything else about Tabitha Lawrence. Garcia, start digging into the victims' histories – see if you find anything useful. And if you have time, look into the LAPD's cold case files on Faye Reynolds."

In silence, the team filed out of the conference room, leaving Garcia alone with the ugly images of the latest BAU case. She shivered and tried to think happy thoughts as she returned to her office, but the only thing she felt was a growing sense of despair.

* * *

Nastia Eldridge hadn't slept that night, though insomnia in and of itself was not particularly noteworthy. She hadn't been getting much sleep for months now. But tonight she was haunted by the images of Neve's mutilated body. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the carnage.

Around four in the morning, Nastia gave up on even feigning sleep so she left her bed and went downstairs to start a pot of coffee. After discovering Neve's body, Nastia had sought refuge at another friend's house. Even if she was mentally capable of staying in the house – which she wasn't – DCPD and CSI units would be working the scene late into the night, so Nastia had come here, to Autumn's house.

Not long after Nastia had begun brewing the coffee, Autumn herself appeared, looking about as exhausted as Nastia felt. Dark circles surrounded her brown eyes and her face, normally ruddy, was pale. Her brown hair hung limply around her face.

"Did I wake you?" Nastia asked softly.

Autumn hoisted herself onto one of the stools lining the island in the middle of the kitchen. She shook her head. "I couldn't sleep."

"Me either."

"Do you think…" Autumn began, but Nastia cut her off quickly.

"No. Don't."

Autumn glanced at the cobalt-blue tiles topping the island. "You have to admit, it's spooky," she said.

"Don't go there," Nastia replied, turning to attend to the coffee pot.

"He'd be mad – maybe he is mad. I'd be mad."

"He can't be mad, Autumn. He's dead."

"This is just like the book. He's coming after us because we didn't follow the plan."

Nastia whirled around to face Autumn. "Joey is dead, Autumn! When you're dead, you're dead. You can't mete out punishment from beyond the grave."

Autumn shook her head, unconvinced. "He's angry, Nastia. I can feel it."

"There's no such thing as ghosts and they certainly don't kill people."

Autumn closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair. "Can you come up with a better explanation for Neve's death?"

Nastia fell silent. No, she couldn't.


	2. Nervous Conditions

**_Standard disclaimers apply. Thank-you to my readers and followers, and a special thanks to safe. from. harm and shireling for your reviews. I'm terrible about replying to reviews, but I really do appreciate your comments! :) Keep 'em coming! _**

**_This is a short update, but it's taken me an unseemly amount of time to write it, which is sad. Alas..._**

* * *

My life closed twice before its close;

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

---Emily Dickson, "My Life Closed Twice Before its Close"

_**CHAPTER TWO**_

_Nervous Conditions_

The small neighborhood of Logan Circle was silent in the early morning. The air was still and weighted down by residual moisture from the weekend's storms. Reid could feel his hair beginning to frizz in the humidity and he ran his hand through it self-consciously as he surveyed the area. The houses on the block were an amalgam of architectural styles and seemed almost incongruous with one another. The house in question was brick, and the three-story façade was completed with a whimsical turret. The townhouse was surrounded by other brick buildings, as well as a few faced in stone or painted a collage of colors: navy, sea green, even pink.

Prentiss surveyed the block. "So this is where the Disney princesses move to retire." Indeed, the street did look rather like a row of castles. Even the stairs leading to the oaken double doors where paved in flagstones and a small brick path curved around the side of the house. The overall effect was charming.

"What did Neve Williams do?" Hotch asked as they passed through the entry gate and the police tape cordoning off the house from the street.

Prentiss shrugged. "A senator's daughter? Probably nothing."

"Do I detect a note of cynicism in your voice, Prentiss?" Reid asked.

"Me? These are my people, Reid," she replied dryly. "The political elite."

"And they say there is no royalty in the US," Hotch replied.

Reid paused on the walkway, gazing up at the house. "Princesses in a castle," he murmured. Privately, he wondered if Neve and her roommate were locked in the castle or if they lived there willingly.

The double doors at the head of the stone staircase flew open and young woman in a pant suit appeared in the doorway. "Are you the FBI agents?"

Hotch, who often seemed to fall into his old role of team leader when Morgan wasn't around, nodded and climbed the stairs to meet the woman. "I'm Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Prentiss and Dr. Reid."

The woman shook his extended hand before waving to Prentiss and Reid, still at the bottom of the staircase. "Detective Crosby. I'm glad you're here. We're all scratching out heads with this one."

Reid frowned, wondering if Crosby would have been so quick to call the BAU if Neve Williams had been another prostitute, not the daughter of well-respected senator.

Crosby waved the trio into the house. "The coroner already took away the body, and the CSI crews have also come and gone, so don't worry about disturbing anything. The victim was found upstairs, in her bedroom." She nodded to the staircase in the middle of the foyer. "I suppose that's where you want to start?"

Hotch nodded. "She was found by her roommate?" he clarified as Crosby led the agents down the hall.

"Right. Nastia Eldridge. According to Nastia, they've been friends since they were in college together."

"Where was that?"

"USC."

USC. Reid found this development quite interesting. If both Nastia and Neve had gone to school in Los Angeles, chances were good that both of them had at least heard of Faye Reynolds. Perhaps the unsub's choice of victims was less random than he had originally thought.

The group found Neve's bedroom bathed in sunlight from the series of windows encircling the room. The room, with its delicate lavender-painted walls hung with smiling photos of Neve and her family and friends, seemed chipper, inviting even. The effect was unsettling, belying the gruesome remnants of the murder: the bloodstained bedclothes and the thick blood spatter on the carpet and the headboard.

Reid glanced around the room, trying to get a feel for Neve. The photos dominated room and most of them where unframed, taped to the wall the way a college freshman decorates her dorm room. The large closet on the opposite side of the room was open and stuffed with clothing. Most of the clothes were light colored – pastels and pinks. A small bookshelf ran along the same wall as the bed and Reid crouched before it, reading the titles. Many of them where children's books, ranging from picture books to easy chapter books.

"What did Neve do?" he asked, looking over the bed at Crosby.

"She was an elementary school teacher."

Reid nodded and started to straighten when he noticed that Neve had several copies of the same book, standing side by side on the top shelf. He reached for one of the books: _Every Little Thing_ by Joey Hennessey. He flipped it open. It had been autographed: "To Neve, who kept us all sane. All my love – Joey."

"What is it?" Hotch asked.

"I'm not sure." Reid replied. He replaced the book on the shelf and turned to Crosby. "Do you mind if I take a look around the house?"

"By all means."

Hotch and Prentiss continued to examine the crime scene, while Reid wandered back down the hall. Some blood drops had bled into the carpet – the unsub must not have wiped his knife after he killed Neve, and blood had dripped from the knife onto the carpet when he left. The hallway was lined with a few paintings. He examined the one closest to him – he could make out the heavy brushstrokes and the shiny, slick effect of dry oil paints. It was an original, a painting of the DC dogwoods in spring.

There was a shared bathroom about halfway down the hall, filled with the normal accoutrements of female life. At the other end of the hall was a second bedroom, the roommate's. Whereas Neve's bedroom was fairly clean and lively, this room was a complete mess. The bed was unmade, clothing was flung haphazardly on the floor or draped over the furniture and magazines sat open on the window sills. The walls were painted black, but someone had been sketching designs in white pencil, almost like a chalk board. Other drawings hung on the wall and on the mirror nearby. Nastia must have also done the paintings in the hallway, Reid decided.

On the bedside table was a single photo, of a woman (Nastia?) and a man, sitting on the trunk of a car with California license plates. Neither of them were smiling, both were dressed in black and seemed to share the same intense, emaciated expression, the type of look long-term heroin addicts had. The man's eyes were dark and hard – almost humorless. The same book he had noticed in Neve's room was sitting on the table. It also had an inscription: "For my Nancy. – J"

Reid flipped through the book. About midway through, he found a folded newspaper article.

_**Joey Hennessey Found Dead**_

_Author Joey Hennessey, best know for his neo-noir novel, _Every Little Thing_, was found in his Georgetown apartment early yesterday morning, dead by an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to his head. The death comes as a shock to the D.C. writing community, who considered Hennessey one of its greatest rising literary stars. _

_"We all thought Joey had such talent and showed such promise," said Ivy Redman, one of several local authors who had worked with Joey in recent months. "We were all eagerly awaiting his second novel."_

_Hennessey's body was found by his housekeeper around 8 o'clock yesterday morning and he was declared dead at the scene an hour later. No note was found at the scene…_

Reid glanced from the article to the photo and back again, rereading the article to ensure that he'd remember it. He tucked the article back into the book and returned it to its spot on the bedside table, before pulling out his cell and dialing Garcia's number.

"What can I do for you, lover boy?" Garcia asked by way of greeting.

Reid chose to ignore her comment. "I need you to look up a book for me."

"A book?"

"Yeah. It's called _Every Little Thing_, by a guy named Joey Hennessey."

"That sounds vaguely familiar."

"Both Neve Williams and her roommate have signed copies of the book in their rooms."

"That's one hell of a coincidence. Well, maybe not a coincidence, but at least it's curious," Garcia noted.

"That's what I was thinking," Reid replied. "See what you can find out about the book and the author. One of the women has an article about his suicide in her book, but I want to know more."

"Sure." He could hear Garcia already tapping away at her computer. "I'll call you when I know more."

"Thanks." He shut the phone and left the bedroom. Hotch and Prentiss were waiting for him on the landing. "Find anything?" Hotch asked.

Reid shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. Detective Crosby, where is the roommate now?"

"Nastia Eldridge? She's staying with another friend, Autumn Aldrin. I have the address here." Crosby pulled out a notebook and scribbled the address onto a blank page, handing it over to Reid when she had finished.

Hotch thanked Crosby and promised to keep in touch before the agents left. No one spoke until Hotch had pulled the black SUV away from the house, guiding it towards the Georgetown address.

"The roommate's an artist," Reid said finally, from the back seat.

"What are you thinking Reid?" Hotch asked, glancing at his colleague in the rear-view mirror.

"I'm not sure what to make of the unsub's choice of victims. I know it's dangerous to make snap judgments, but just going off of our basic knowledge, I would have figured the unsub to choose the artist, not the elementary school teacher. I mean, Neve and Nastia seem like polar opposites, judging by their rooms. Of the two, I'd say Nastia better fit the femme fatal motif."

"But if the unsub believes that debuting is synonymous with prostitution, he might have felt targeting Neve was justified."

"Could be." But Reid was troubled. Something didn't make sense, though he had yet to figure out exactly what puzzle piece was missing.


	3. Viable Options

**_Standard disclaimers apply. _**

**_Thank-you to my readers and followers, and especially to my reviewers: safe. from. harm, paper. creations and Moon Raven2! I really appreciate your feedback! :D_**

* * *

They killed the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making them think the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of time would do it at last. Only when she was dead would they be safe.

---Toni Morrison, _Beloved_

**_CHAPTER THREE_**

_Viable Options_

After stopping at the DCPD to meet with the lead detective, Rossi and Morgan headed to Capital Hill and the offices of Tennessee senior senator Gregory Williams. Though the thought remained unspoken, both agents found it strange that Williams would be working the morning after his daughter was found dead. Morgan wasn't certain what to expect when they met Senator Williams. He had an image of someone who looked like Colonel Sanders and sounded like Foghorn Leghorn.

Williams' name was fairly well-known in DC politics, due in part to his appointment as head of the Select Committee on Ethics and his reputation for conservative family values. The latter had endeared him to many voters in his state, embedded as it was in the Bible Belt. He was beloved by the type of people who tried to get the _Harry Potter _books banned from elementary school libraries, though it was hard to say if he truly espoused those beliefs or not. Like most politicians, he walked a fine line between partisanship and reelection.

All three of the senate office buildings were located on Capitol Hill, at the corner of First and Constitution, in the shadow of the Capitol Building and the Supreme Court. Both of the senators from Tennessee had their offices in the Dirksen Building, where the majority of the Senate committees (though not the Ethics Committee) were also headquartered. Williams' office was on the fourth floor.

"I hate having to come here," Rossi muttered under his breath after they had successfully passed through the metal detectors on the third try.

Morgan smirked but nodded. He sometimes found it hard to believe that people as different at William and the BAU team could work for the same government. Then he remembered Strauss' penchant for devious machinations and he wasn't so shocked.

After wasting fifteen minutes at security, trying to explain why they didn't need an appointment to see Williams, they were finally granted visitor's badges and ushered towards the elevators. Williams' secretary was waiting for them. She beamed when she saw them, her smile a dazzling shade of white straight from the dentist's office.

"Senator Williams is waiting for you," she chirped when they had flashed their IDs in her general direction. "Go on in."

Morgan and Rossi exchanged glances and entered the office. Senator Williams, sitting at his desk, looked up when the agents entered. He removed his reading glasses and stood, shaking Morgan's hand and then Rossi's as Morgan introduced himself and his colleague in turn. When introductions had been made, Williams motioned to a pair of oversized leather chairs in front of the desk. "Agents, please take a seat."

The senator was probably in his mid-sixties, with silvering hair and clear blue eyes. His speech was slightly accented, but not drawling, as Morgan had somewhat suspected it might be. In his navy suit, he cut a clean figure, fairly unremarkable. He remained standing until the BAU agents had settled themselves. Then he leaned forward, eyeing his visitors squarely.

"I was expecting a visit from a law enforcement representative, but I didn't think the FBI would be called in. Is this because of me?" he asked.

"We're from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico," Morgan clarified. "Due to the…nature of the case, we probably would have been called in sooner or later."

"The officer I spoke with last night was a little foggy on the details."

Morgan ground his jaw. This was the type of situation he would never grow accustom to. How did you tell a father that his youngest daughter had been mutilated in her own bed? "She didn't suffer," he said at last, his voice growing soft. "The circumstances of her death are similar to a couple other deaths and since the BAU specializes in profiling serial killers, we were contacted."

Williams nodded. He seemed to understand the subtext beneath Morgan's words. He heaved a sigh. "What do I tell her mother?" he whispered, his practiced veneer cracking slightly under the strain of grief.

"Tell her that Neve didn't suffer and that we're doing everything in our power to bring her murderer to justice."

Williams rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I know, in your line of work you must hear this all the time, but a father should never outlive his child. I wouldn't subject my worst enemy to this kind of pain." He slammed his fist against the desk. "It's that girl," he muttered. "This is all her fault."

"Which girl?" Rossi asked.

"That girl who moved in with Neve a few months ago – Nastia Eldridge. I thought she was past that phase, but Neve always had a big, kind heart, so I shouldn't have been all that surprised when she let Nastia move in. I warned her not to let Nastia back into her life, but she couldn't say no."

"Back?"

"Nastia and Neve were roommates at USC. They were very close, but Neve was something of a bad influence."

"How do you mean?"

"Nastia is…unconventional. She was quite good at distracting Neve from her studies." Williams paused and an uncomfortable silence hung in the room for a few minutes. When Morgan realized that Williams wasn't planning on being more forthcoming, he shifted in his chair – it was actually much more uncomfortable than it looked – and leaned forward.

"By 'distract' do you mean, 'let's bake cookies and watch repeats of _Full House_' or do you mean 'let's go to frat parties and get drunk every night of the week'?" he asked.

Williams sighed. "Yes, Nastia took Neve to a lot of parties, but Neve wasn't much of a drinker. It had more to do with the people Nastia introduced her to. They were…bizarre."

"Bizarre."

"They were all very…intense. They were artists and film students and writers and they all had rather pessimistic world views. Nastia, for example, is an atheist and at the time, she hung around with homosexuals and drug addicts. They weren't the type of people my wife and I wanted Neve exposed to. She would come back home at the holidays with a lot of ridiculous ideas in her head."

Oh. Morgan leaned back again, finally comprehending. Nastia and her circle where the type of people Williams liked to rail against in his campaign speeches. The type of people, in other words, Williams preferred not to think of as people at all. Of course Williams wouldn't have approved of Nastia – she had managed to teach Neve to be open minded.

"I never understood Nastia's beliefs – or lack thereof," Williams continued. "Her father is a minister, after all. Very well known in New England. You'd think she'd be a little bit more conventional."

Unless her father is as rigid as you are, Morgan thought. Maybe Nastia was just stretching her wings a little – her own brand of rebellion.

"You said that your daughter let Nastia back into her life, did they have a falling out?" Rossi said, interrupting Morgan's internal monologue.

"My wife and I thought it would be better if Neve returned to the east coast, so we struck a deal with her. We were willing to pay for her graduate degree in she agreed to mover back here for school and promised to stay after she finished."

"So you sort of staged an intervention?" Morgan asked.

"Intervention is perhaps a strong word," Williams said, "but yes, we got her out of a situation we thought was unhealthy. She came back here, got her masters of education at the University of Virginia and she kept her end of the bargain. She got a job here in Washington at one of the best private schools in the city. She was a good daughter."

"But Nastia found Neve?" Rossi asked.

"Yes."

"How?"

Williams shook his head. "I don't know. Neve didn't even tell us she was in the city. My wife called her house one morning, and Nastia answered. That's how we found out. That was a couple months ago. We tried to talk to Neve about the…situation, but she wouldn't listen. She said it was her house, and she wanted Nastia to stay, so Nastia was going to stay."

Morgan nodded. "When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Senator?"

"Two days ago. We were setting up a time to have dinner tomorrow night." His voice cracked and he blinked. "I'm sorry."

Morgan looked over at Rossi. "I think we have everything we need, sir. Thank-you for your time." He handed the senator a business card. "This is my number. If you need anything or have any questions, please, give me a call."

"Thank-you, Agent Morgan."

The pair remained silent until they had left the office building. "What do you think, Rossi?" Morgan asked as they stepped out into the fall sunshine. He slid his sunglasses over his eyes.

"The good senator and his wife certainly don't like the roommate," he replied.

"He was a bit intolerant, wasn't he?"

Rossi chuckled. "Just a bit. But I'm not surprised. His platform seems to be simply institutionalized intolerance."

Morgan raised his eyebrows in agreement and climbed into their SUV, starting the car. A wave of relief washed over him as he merged into traffic. Being so close to all these politicians made him nervous, which was ironic seeing as his career seemed to be headed towards a future in Bureau politicking.

* * *

"Thanks Rossi." Prentiss snapped her phone closed. "Morgan and Rossi just left their meeting with Senator Williams," she said, climbing out of the car. "Rossi said that Williams disapproved of Nastia Eldridge – he thought she was a bad influence on Neve."

"Why's that?" Hotch asked.

"Apparently because she wasn't a God-fearing Christian," Prentiss replied.

"Naturally," Reid murmured.

"He also said that Neve didn't tell her parents when Nastia moved in."

Reid frowned. "We're they…you know" – he cleared his throat – "lovers?" He blushed slightly.

Prentiss shook her head. "Rossi didn't say. You'll have to ask her, Reid," she said, a smile playing on her lips. Reid's blush deepened.

"Well, at the very least, this should make for an interesting interview," Hotch said before Reid and Prentiss could start bickering. He crossed in front of the SUV to the brick sidewalk, crunching a few wilted, fallen leaves as he walked. It was hard to believe that fall was already here. Where had the year gone?

Autumn Aldrin's house was a more conventional townhouse, painted white and sandwiched between blue painted houses on either side. Hotch supposed that the houses were painted so people could tell where one ended and the next began. Each building was two stories tall and the effect was disorienting: they looked too squat, as if a giant had pressed his hands against them, compressing them. He knocked on the black door and waited for someone to answer.

The door was whipped open by a petite young woman who seemed too small to produce a motion of such force. She wore a tattered Rage Against the Machine t-shirt paired with a long black skirt and purple Converses. Her hair cut short and dyed a shocking shade of pink. She looked tired, and she had done a poor job of covering up the circles under her eyes with concealer. Or perhaps it was just that the thick layer of kohl rimming her eyelids brought the bruised color to the surface.

"Yeah?" she asked, looking Hotch up and down. She was chewing a rather large piece of gum and she blew a bubble, snapping it as Hotch spoke.

"Is Autumn Aldrin here?"

Another bubble, another snap. "She's at work."

"Are you Nastia Eldridge?" Reid asked, joining Hotch in the woman's line of sight.

She shot him a look that somehow managed to combine condescension and fear. "Who wants to know?" she demanded, squinting at Reid.

Hotch held up his badge. "FBI. We're here to talk to you about your roommate's death."

"FBI, hmmm?" She eyed Reid again, reevaluating him. She jerked her chin at him. "Him too?"

"This is Agent Reid and behind him is Agent Prentiss."

"You look like a grad student," she said to Reid. "What are you, sixteen?"

Reid opened his mouth to inform Nastia that, while _he _had been a sixteen-year-old grad student, most were much older, but Hotch, sensing something, waved him down.

"Can we come in?" he asked.

She scowled at him and blew a bubble. "Fine," she muttered, holding the door wide. She led them into a well-lit living room. Prentiss noticed an easel in one corner of the room and she gravitated towards it. An oversized sketch pad was mounted on it and the pencil sketch of a man was half completed. He stood with his back to the viewer but was looking back over his shoulder.

"My latest," Nastia said, coming to stand behind Prentiss.

"It's wonderful. You have a lot of talent."

Nastia shrugged. "I've been having trouble with the eyes. Everyone says that hands are the hardest thing to draw, but their wrong. It's the eyes. I mean, the eyes are the window to the soul. It's hard to capture that in ink and paint." She turned away to face Reid and Hotch. "You wanted to talk about Neve?"

"Yes. We understand that you and her parents didn't see eye to eye."

Nastia raised an eyebrow. "That's an understatement. Her father's a prick. He hated me."

"Why?" Prentiss asked, coming to join Reid and Hotch around the small coffee table on one side of the room.

"Because I didn't fit into his perfect world where every man believes in Jesus and America and apple pie and marries a good woman who will be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen within six months of the wedding. Actually," she laughed, "he and _my _father would get on well, if I ever bothered to introduce them. He's a minister, you see, and hates anyone who's not white, Anglo-Saxon, protestant and male."

"And you didn't fit that mold. What about Neve? What did she think about her father's views?"

Nastia shrugged. "She didn't really know better, when we first met. And can you blame her? That's how she was raised. For a while, I didn't know any better either, but I educated myself and that's what Neve needed – an education."

"You gave her that education?" Reid asked.

Nastia slowly turned her head and considered him. She nodded. "I introduced her to my friends. At first, she was shocked, scandalized. Imagine if Scarlett O'Hara was dropped into The Factory."

"The Factory?" Reid asked.

"You know. Andy Warhol? Edie Sedgwick?"

Reid shook his head.

Nastia rolled her eyes and glanced at Hotch. "Where did you find this guy?"

"Go on," Hotch instructed.

Nastia ran a hand through her spiky pink hair. "Right. Anyway, at first, Neve was completely out of her element. But then she started to see that these were actual people, with complex lives and emotions, not monsters to be feared. She realized how short-sighted her parents were and once that happened, she fit right in." She stared straight ahead of her and smiled dreamily, thinking back to those times. "Really, it wasn't just me. It was Joey too."

Reid blinked. "Joey? Joey Hennessey?"

Nastia nodded slowly. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Both you and Neve had his book in your rooms. They were autographed."

"Ah. Of course. Yes, Neve adored Joey. I don't mean that she loved him, you know, in a sexual sense. But she loved being around him. We all did. We had a group; we called ourselves the Breakfast Club, like the movie, you know?" She looked to Reid for validation, but realizing her error, turned back to Hotch and Prentiss.

"How many were in their group?"

"Well, me and Neve, of course. Autumn, Joey and two others, Charlie and George. George is a woman, by the way."

"You all went to USC?"

"Yeah. And we all ended up here. I don't know how. It just happened."

"How did Neve react when Joey killed himself?" Reid asked.

Nastia's smile melted and she started playing with the large cuff bracelets adoring her wrists. Reid watched her move the bands. "Yeah. We were all devastated, of course. But Neve? Neve actually was the strongest of us. She tried to get us to move on. She told us that Joey wouldn't have wanted us moping around."

"Did it work?"

"I don't know. It's like we needed Joey to keep us together. I haven't seen George or Charlie for months and before yesterday, I hadn't seen Autumn for almost as long."

"Why did he do it?" Hotch asked. "Kill himself, I mean."

Nastia shook her head but sat in silence for a few moments. "I don't really know," she said at last. "Joey was an artist and he had an artist's temperament." She twirled one of the bracelets again. "He took everything so seriously and felt everything so much deeper than any of us did. His emotions were so concentrated, so intense. He had a hard time handling some things, because he felt everything with such passion. Have you ever read his book?"

The agents shook their heads.

"Oh, he poured his soul into that book. If you had read it, you'd know better how he saw the world. He's hard to explain if you've never read his work or didn't know him. He was passionate and that passion informed his work and his life."

"When did you move in with Neve?" Reid asked, his eyes still on her wrists.

"Um, maybe three, four months ago?"

"Was that before or after you slit your wrists?"

"Wh…what?" Nastia's mouth fell open. "How…?"

Reid motioned to her wrists. "That's why you where those bracelets, right? To hide the scars. I'm surprised you're not wearing long sleeves too."

Nastia bowed her head. "It was after. That's why I came to live with her. I didn't trust myself to live by myself. That's why she took me in."

"And why she didn't tell her parents."

"I don't suppose they would have looked too fondly on their daughter harboring a failed suicide. That's a sin, you know."

Prentiss sighed. "Was Neve worried about anything in the days leading up to her death? Anyone who was giving her trouble?"

"She was an elementary school teacher. She wasn't the type of person to have enemies. She was too sweet."

"Did you notice anyone hanging around the house? Someone who looked like they shouldn't be there?"

"No. No one. Nothing makes sense about this."

Hotch nodded and stood. "Thank-you, Ms. Eldridge. I think we have everything we need right now. We'll be in touch."

She blew another bubble and walked the agents to the door. "Am I in danger?"

"We don't know yet," Hotch replied. "We'll update you when we know more."

* * *

"It's odd," Reid said a few minutes later, when the agents had returned to the car.

"What is?" Prentiss asked, leaning around her seat to see him.

Reid bit his lip, thinking. "That there should be two suicides in this so called Breakfast Club within months of one another."

"You think they're related?"

"They'd have to be, even if unintentionally. The question is, did Joey Hennessey know when he died that Nastia was also planning to kill herself."

"Let me grab my Ouija board," Prentiss replied dryly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Reid sighed. "Something just doesn't feel right. I got a strange vibe off of her."

Prentiss nodded. "I agree. She was hiding something."

"Something happened in L.A. It all traces back to L.A. The murders, the victim and her friends… The key is in L.A."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Reid," Hotch said, glancing at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "I'm going to recommend that Morgan send you there to do a little digging."

Reid frowned. Perfect. L.A. was _just _what he needed: it was like visiting a high school of four million.


	4. That Game They Play

**_Standard disclaimers apply. _**

**_Yet another chapter that has been hiding on my hard drive for over a week, waiting to be completed. It's that time of the semester, I guess. Anyway, many thanks to my readers, followers and an extra-special thanks to my reviewers: moni9576, Moon Raven2, Mogo Girl, emzypemzy and shireling! I really appreciate the feedback! :D_**

* * *

'But why will he not dance again?' asked the Infanta, laughing.

'Because his heart is broken,' answered the Chamberlain.

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. 'For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts,' she cried, and she ran out into the garden.

---Oscar Wilde, "The Birthday of the Infanta"

_**CHAPTER FOUR:**_

_That Game They Play_

"I think it's a great idea!" Morgan said that evening, when the entire team had reconvened to debrief and Hotch had made his suggestion.

Reid looked slightly crestfallen at this decision, though – to hear Hotch explain it – the idea to go to LA had been Reid's.

"J.J., when we're done, I want you to call up Detective Kim in LA and give him the heads up on Reid's arrival."

J.J. nodded and made a notation on the pad of paper before her. Garcia cocked her head and studied Morgan. The last two statemements had been made in a voice just a note or two shriller than he usually spoke. At least that was how it sounded to her. It didn't take a profiler to tell that Morgan was chafing slightly at Hotch's suggestion, though he agreed with its merit. Poor Morgan, she thought, watching him update the team on the day's progress. He was torn between establishing himself as a division leader in his own right and respecting Hotch's current situation. Everyone knew it would only be a matter of time before Foyet made good on his threats to Haley and Jack and he wasn't utterly destroyed, Hotch would eventually reassume his role as Section Head. In the interim, Garcia noticed, though he had abdicated his position in favor of Morgan, Hotch slipped back into leadership mode from time to time. The suggestion to send Reid to LA was born of one such slip.

The rest of the team, Garcia included, found themselves slightly nonplussed when it came to Morgan's newfound role. Old habits die hard and every team member was guilty of at least once deferring to Hotch without thinking. Garcia could tell such incidents grated on Morgan, though he pretended to ignore them. In the months since Foyet had attacked Hotch and threatened his family, the entire team had seemed off kilter, as if Hotch's agitation had infected the entire group.

Morgan dismissed the group a few minutes later and Garcia leaned across the table towards Reid. "I have that information you wanted."

"Oh, great, thanks." Reid stood and followed Garcia back to her office.

"Better pack your sunscreen," she said as she settled down at her desk, bringing up the relevant files on the monitor.

Reid chuckled ruefully. "Don't remind me. You'd think all those years in Vegas and Pasadena would have given me a little more tolerance."

"Not when you spend all those years in the library, my dear," Garcia replied. She grinned at him.

"Touché. So, what'd you find?"

"Okay, well, first, Joey Hennessey. He was originally from the LA area, and he attended USC from 2000 to 2004, where he studied English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. The novel you asked me about, _Every Little Thing_, was originally submitted as his thesis. He cleaned it up and had it published the following year."

"2005."

"Indeed. Anyway, after the publication of the book, he became the critics' darling and for a year or so he did the whole publicity, book tour, autograph thing. Then he went off the radar for a while, resurfacing in the fall of 2007 to start graduate school at UCLA. He dropped out a year and a half later and moved to DC where he was supposedly working on a second novel until he commit suicide last spring."

Reid pursed his lips. "That sounds like the Wikipedia version of his biography. What juicy little tidbits are you keeping from me, Garcia?"

She smiled. "Be patient! I have to tell you about the book too." With a few clicks of her mouse, she changed screens. "Let's see… _Every Little Thing_. Like I said, the critisw had mostly positive things to say about it – they seemed impressed at the effort, given that it was his first novel and he wrote it while still a student. Amazon describes it as 'a neo-noir novel in the tradition of James Ellroy and Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett before him.' But the really interesting thing is that it's about a murder in LA in the 1940s." She turned from the screen and paused for dramatic effect. "The entire plot is based on the murder of Faye Reynolds."

"Really?" Reid leaned back in his ergonomic chair. "That is interesting," he murmured.

Garcia nodded. "Yeah. Really. The murder in _Every Little Thing _mirrors the death of Faye Reynolds down to the very last detail. It's exactly the same. Hennessey's character has – to borrow from your lexicon – has the same victimology as Reynolds down to being a call girl. All in all, it's a very loosely fictionalized description of the murder."

"So it's about the murder?"

"Sort of. I haven't read it, of course, but from what I can gather from Amazon and Barnes and Noble, the protagonist is this guy who meets the victim a few months before she dies, falls head over heels in love and goes off the reservation when she dies to find her murderer. Throw in some corrupt cops, Hollywood vixens and McCarthy stooges and you've got yourself a novel."

"Hmmm."

"You don't sound all that impressed."

He shrugged. "I've read a lot of books."

"Anyway, I figured I'd better fill you in on the plot before I got to part two of my investigation."

"Okay."

"Well, when I started digging into Joey Hennessey's past, I discovered a couple more interesting things. Young Joey's parents died when he was a teenager and left him with quite a fortune. Which explains how he paid for USC. It also explains how he paid for the mental hospital stay in 2006."

"Ah."

Garcia raised her eyebrows. "Yes. As you may have already surmised, Hennessey's a rather tortured author. He checked into Somerville Hospital outside of LA in 2006 and left a year later to enroll at UCLA. And I think I know why he cracked. Which reminds me, the first thing you should ask Detective Kim for is the case file on Allison Walters."

"Who's Allison Walters?"

"The girl Hennessey was accused of killing in 2006. The case didn't flag for me when I first searched because the whole MO wasn't there. She was murdered in January 2006 – stabbed to death. They suspected Hennessey because the girl had the word "traitor" carved into her stomach."

"Like Faye Reynolds."

"And like the victim in Hennessey's book, Madeline Chase. That's why the police originally suspected Hennessey – because the murder seemed to be lifted more or less chapter and verse from his book. But Hennessey used his inheritance to hire a fancy lawyer who got the case dismissed. It went cold, but the police always seemed to like Hennessey for the killing, even though they had no really damning evidence against him."

Reid rested his elbows on his knees and tented his fingers. "Allison Walters dies in January of 2006, the police suspect Hennessey and by the end of the year, he's in a mental hospital. He sounds like an unsub."

"Ghosts don't kill people, Reid."

He smiled. "You know what Bram Stoker wrote in _Dracula_, don't you?"

Garcia shook her head, playing along. "No."

"_The dead travel fast_."

She laughed. "They might travel fast, but do they kill?"

"I suppose that'll remain to be seen." He rolled his shoulders and stood. "Is there anything I can bring your back from LA?"

Garcia paused, thinking. "How about one of those maps to all the movie stars' houses? Then I can spy on them from Google Earth."

Reid grinned. "You got it." He turned to leave and was halfway out the door when he heard Garcia speak again.

"Hey Reid?"

He turned. "Garcia?"

"Be careful, okay? You know how those unsubs like to kidnap you."

"If that's the case, Garcia, I should be pretty safe in LA – the unsub's here, you know."

"I know, just be careful."

He leaned against the door, arms crossed over his chest. "You know, you never told what was bothering you this morning," he said finally.

She turned in her seat, twirling back and forth slightly in her anxiety. She bit the inside of her cheek. Wasn't it just like Reid to remember their conversation from this morning, despite everything that had happened since then. She sighed. "It's not a big deal, Reid. Forget about it."

"I'm a profiler, Garcia, and I know, so I already know it's not a big deal."

She bowed her head. "I'm just a little worried about Morgan, that's all."

Reid nodded slowly. "A lot has changed in a very short period of time," he agreed. "But I don't think that's what you mean."

"He used to be a lot more fun."

He cocked his head. "Something else is bothering you."

"He's getting very close to Tamara Barnes."

"Yes."

"I…I don't know if that's…wise."

"It's not for us to judge."

"But a victim!"

Reid wrinkled his brow. "A victim's sister."

"Where do we draw the line? Especially in his position?"

"Garcia, Morgan knows what he'd doing."

"Maybe he doesn't! Maybe he's not thinking straight. Emotion makes us act like we never otherwise would."

"That's very accurate." Reid offered her a small smile. "But I think he's earned our trust, Garcia. Give him the benefit of the doubt. At least for now."

She played with her feathered pin and didn't meet his gaze. "Don't say anything to him about this, okay."

"Okay. I'll see you when I get back, okay?"

"Keep in touch."

"You know all of us would be lost without you, Garcia." He left her office and continued down the hall towards the elevator, checking his cell as he walked.

"Reid!" Morgan was leaving the department through the glass doors leading to the BAU bullpen as Reid passed. "I'm glad I caught you. You've got the jet tomorrow. Be at airport at ten."

"Thanks." Reid pressed the elevator call button. He glanced over at Morgan. "How's it going? You know, being section head an all?"

"Good. Different, you know, but good."

Reid nodded. "I'm glad to hear that. I'll keep you updated on what I find out in LA."

"Great. Good luck."

"I'll need it."

* * *

On his way to the airport the next morning, Reid stopped at Barnes and Noble to buy a copy of _Every Little Thing _as well as a couple of computer books he had been planning on reading for some time now. Nothing like a little light reading for the flight.

_Every Little Thing _turned out to be a slim volume with several pages of rave reviews artfully arranged at the front of the book. Reid scanned these with interest, but – like all reviews included with a book – they were fairly unhelpful. He closed the book. The cover was black. At the bottom was a silhouette of a man, standing underneath a street light. In the upper right hand corner, a starlet looked down at the man. The title was splashed across the rest of the cover in a 40s-style font. He shook his head – this stylized drama struck him as forced.

At the cash register, the saleswoman's eyes lit up when she saw the book on the top of the pile.

"_Every Little Thing_? I love this book! Joey Hennessey is a genius, isn't he?"

Reid shrugged, the irony not lost on him. "I've never read it."

"Oh, you're going to love it! It's so romantic."

Reid hoped his expression didn't reflect what he was thinking. "I'm sure I will," he said, handing the woman his credit card, hoping to hurry the process up a little.

A half hour later, he had arrived at the airport and boarded the jet. It seemed a lot larger when he was in it by himself. He tried a few seats until he found one that seemed right and glanced out the window.

He wondered if Lena had ever read the book. She had gone to USC, after all. Maybe she had some insight that Garcia's computer couldn't find. He dialed her number before he could talk himself out of it and was relieved to get her voicemail.

"Hey, it's Spencer Reid. From DC? Anyway, I've come across a book in relation to a case and I was wondering if you had read it. It's called _Every Little Thing_, by a USC alum named Joey Hennessey. I was wondering if you'd hear of him, seeing as you went to USC. Uh, anyway, give me a call when you get the chance."

He snapped his phone closed and grabbed his iPod. He chose one of his favorite Beethoven pieces, the Eroica Symphony and opened _Every Little Thing_, settling in for the cross-country flight.


	5. The Memory Keeper

**_Standard disclaimers apply. _**

**_As ever, thank-you to my readers, followers and especially to my reviewers: moni9576 and Evening Spirit. As you all know, reviews make wonderful New Year's Presents! ;)_**

* * *

For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me that history's terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could have never told me. Only history itself can convince you of the truth. And once you've seen the truth — really seen it — you can't look away.

---Elizabeth Kostova, _The Historian_

_**CHAPTER FIVE**_

_The Memory Keeper_

The offices of _New World Order Magazine _were located in the heart of downtown DC, in a fairly new, eco-friendly high-rise. Sandwiched in the middle of the building, between a PR firm and the offices of a special interest group, the magazine would be easy to miss, if one wasn't looking for it. Hotch and Rossi, however, were looking for it, and so managed to arrive at the office just before nine, with little trouble.

Officially, Autumn Aldrin had worked for the magazine in the art department for a few years now, since arriving in DC. Unofficially, from what Garcia could gather, Autumn _was _the art department, having been tapped by a friend to spearhead layouts and design when he began publishing the magazine. And in the intervening years, _New World Order Magazine _seemed to have modest success, even as larger magazines were struggling to adapt to a postmodern world where readers sought content online rather than in print.

Perhaps, Rossi mused as he and Hotch waited for Autumn, _New World Order _was surviving because it appealed to a small, pointed demographic. Several issues of the magazine rested on the small table in the claustrophobic waiting room, and Rossi had begun to page through one while the agents waited. Judging by the content and advertising, the magazine appealed to young radicals with a libertarian stance. While most of the articles dealt with current events and Capital Hill politics, it also boasted sections on the economy and arts and culture. Rossi flipped to the back where he found a few movie, television and music reviews and sensed that it had the potential to become its readers' bible.

"The perfect primer for today's yuppie anarchist," Rossi commented. Hotch, who evidently had been lost in his own little world glanced over at him.

"What's that, Dave?" he asked.

"Nothing, just thinking out loud," the other agent replied, closing the magazine. "How much do you want to bet that this girl's going to come from a conservative background?" he said after a moment's silence.

Hotch frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"It's just a hunch. Both our victim and Nastia had old-fashioned parents with old-fashioned values. I'm wondering if everyone in their little group came from similar roots. It would explain their shared desire to rebel. And this magazine certainly seems to advocate its own kind of revolution."

Hotch eyed the magazines on the table as if he had just now noticed their existence. Rossi could tell that Hotch's prolonged game of cat and mouse with Foyet was wearing on the man more and more every day. He wondered if it would be better for the entire team if Hotch took a leave of absence, even if it was just to relax and get some sleep. Hotch looked as though he had been battling insomnia for six months or more and Rossi – if he were truly honest with himself – had begun to question Hotch's ability to think clearly in the field. But fieldwork was a point of pride of Hotch and Rossi knew he would read any suggestion to take a break as an insult.

When he finally spoke, Hotch's voice was barely above a whisper. "These kids seem to have gotten themselves into a world of trouble."

"No kidding," Rossi agreed. "Whatever happened to rebellion through music and free love?"

"It got too commercial," Hotch replied, looking up as a young woman appeared in the waiting area.

She flashed them a large, toothy smile. "Agents? I'm Autumn Aldrin. Maggie told me you were waiting to see me?"

Hotch rose to his feet and introduced himself and Rossi. "I'm sorry to bother you at work, but we have some questions about Neve Williams."

"Of course. Anything." Autumn held her hand out, motioning down the hall. "My office is down this way."

Beyond the waiting room, the floor plan bottlenecked into a claustrophobic maze of cubicles and thin-walled offices. Boxes overflowing with printer paper and back issues of the magazine were plied along the carpeted floor. Blown-up prints of notable covers hung on the walls: coverage of Iraq, Barack Obama's election and the lagging economy. A few curious heads popped up over the fabric-covered cubicles, and Rossi tried to hide a smile – the office suddenly looked like a prairie dog town.

"You'll have to pardon the mess," Autumn said. "We're about ready to put the next issue to bed. We're covering health care – again. I tell you, as long as they keep on debating health insurance on the Hill, we've got cover stories." She chuckled slightly. "And, of course, we have on-going midterm election coverage, most of which is on the web. I'm in here."

She had led them to the very back of the office, which was divided from the rest of the space by a glass wall and split in half. "Max Koenig, the editor in chief and creator of the magazine is over there." She nodded to her left.

Autumn office was a complete disaster, and the face that it was visible to everyone at the magazine didn't seem to be stopping her from building piles that rivaled the termite mounds of Africa. What appeared to be a year's worth of mock ups littered her desk and had begun cascading onto the floor. Binders lined the divider between her office and Koenig's, so stuffed with papers that they were practically overflowing. A poster delineating font variations hung over a bookcase on the opposite wall. The only refuge from the complete disorganization of the office came from the vista afforded by the picture window behind Autumn's desk: the Potomac River.

Somehow, within the chaos of the design editor's world, Hotch and Rossi were able to find two seats before Autumn's desk, though Hotch's chair currently housed several weeks worth of back issues of the _Washington Post_.

"Oh, you can just toss those onto the floor," Autumn said, her cheeks flushing slightly when she realized how unprepared she must have seemed. She herself was contending with a stack of heavy books on her own chair. She dropped these to the floor with a thump. She then cleared some space on her desk before turning her attention to the agents. "Neve's death is such a tragedy. It's been a hard year for us," she said without ceremony.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "You mean your group of friends from California."

"The Breakfast Club, yeah. I mean, Joey's death was shock enough, but at least he chose it. Loosing Neve just seems so senseless."

"Your friend Nastia Eldridge said you had fallen out of contact with one another since college," Rossi began.

Autumn nodded. "That's right."

"Had you also fallen out of contact with Neve?"

"Yes and no. As I'm sure Nastia told you, Neve left California rather abruptly about a year after she graduated."

"Her father said he enticed her back east with the promise of a free ride to graduate school."

Autumn's eyebrows flew up. "You spoke to her father, then. I suppose that was…illuminating."

"I take it you weren't much of a fan of the Senator either," Rossi noted.

The woman smirked, rolling her eyes. "None of us were. He was too much like all of our parents."

"Oh?"

"We all came to LA trying to stretch our wings. We were trying to find ourselves. Some of us, of course, had very strict parents. Granted, my parents weren't as strict as Nastia's or Neve's, but they definitely had rules that we were expected to follow without question. College was the first chance I had to do exactly what I wanted. No one was monitoring what movies or TV shows I watched, or what music I listened too. I didn't have to explain why I was reading the books I was reading and no one told me I had to dress a certain way or to go to church on Sunday. It was very liberating. I got to figure out who I was, out of the shadow of my family. You see, I grew up in a very small town in Oregon – everyone knew the Aldrin kids and we sort of lost our individual identities because we were the Aldrins. It was nice not to be subjected to such rigid expectations and scrutiny.

"But I'm digressing. You asked if I had kept in contact with Neve after graduation and the answer is yes. Well, at least I had recently. After Never came back here for grad school, we feel out of touch. But then Max decided to start this magazine and invited me to join the staff. So I moved out here and Neve was the first person I contacted. It's so much easier to move somewhere when you know someone there."

"When was the magazine founded?" Hotch asked.

"2007. So almost two years ago. Once I moved out here, we reconnected and we started seeing a lot of one another. I honestly liked Neve. She had a good heart. Which is why her death is so sad. The world needs more people like Neve."

Rossi shifted in his seat, trying – and failing – to get comfortable. "Did Neve have any enemies?"

"Enemies?" Autumn laughed ruefully. "I don't think Neve could make enemies if she tried. She taught first grade! And she taught at one of those cushy private schools the Obamas considered for their daughters. Apart from some overwrought parents who aren't happy that their little Jimmy or Suzie isn't making friends, I don't suppose Neve dealt with anyone too terrifying."

"What about Nastia Eldridge?" Hotch interjected. "Could she have introduced Neve to someone who got her into trouble?"

At this question, Autumn lapsed into silence, considering Hotch's words for a few moments as she formulated her answer. "I really don't know," she said at last. "Neve and Joey were always a little more extreme than the rest of us. And Neve was very naive and very trusting, especially of Nastia. As I'm sure you know by now, Nastia opened Neve's eyes to the world around her and also introduced her to all sorts of people and beliefs that Neve had never considered."

"Drugs?" Rossi asked.

"Could be." Autumn's voice had suddenly turned dreamy.

Rossi frowned. "You don't know? I thought your group was inseparable."

"You have to understand the dynamic," Autumn said, a slight edge creeping into her words. "We called ourselves the Breakfast Club, but we were really more of a salon."

"Salon?" Rossi repeated.

"Not in beautician sense. I mean in a more classical sense. Like in Paris at the turn of the last century. We were group of like minds – artists. Joey the writer; Nastia and me, the graphic artists; George the actress and Charlie the film student. We shared ideas and supported one another's arts. We spent a lot of time together, yes, but often our time together was devoted to the proliferation of art. I'm sure to you it sounds very esoteric and conceited and I don't blame you. It's starting to sound esoteric to me now too. But at the time, it seemed so important."

"Neve was the only one of you who wasn't an 'artist,'" Hotch observed. "Did her presence create any problems?"

"No!" Autumn exclaimed. "Neve was the best of any of us. She was kind and possessed a beautiful mind – a beautiful soul. She could have easily become our muse."

"She wasn't a proverbial third wheel."

"Certainly not. But I think she always felt slightly out of place. She stuck very close to Nastia. Like I said, she always trusted Nastia, perhaps too freely. So while we met to discuss art and to party from time to time, we weren't always together. There were rumors that Nastia and Joey experimented freely with drugs. But did Neve?" She shook her head. "I'll never know for sure, but I'd be very surprised. Neve followed Nastia like a puppy, but I don't think she'd do drugs, just because Nastia did them. Neve was a much better student than Nastia, after all, and I don't think liberal heroine use would aide her studies."

"How about in the last few months, once Nastia had moved back in with Neve?"

"No. Neve matured a lot after she left LA. She grew up, and I don't think Nastia ever has. I think a lot of the things that Nastia talked Neve into in LA wouldn't have flown with her now. She had a good job and she was happy."

"What did Nastia talk her into in LA?" Hotch pushed.

Autumn shrugged. "Parties, liquor, sex. Nastia and Joey lived very hedonistic lives and they tried to draw Neve into that."

"But not now?"

"No. Plus Nastia was lying pretty low since her suicide attempt. She may not have succeeded in killing herself, but something did die. From what I heard from Neve, Nastia spent most of her time at home, drawing."

Autumn's mention of sex had triggered something in Hotch's mind that he couldn't believe he had overlooked before. Could his investigating skills really be suffering so?

"Was Neve dating anyone?"

Autumn shook her head. "I don't think so. I know there was another teacher at her school that she was interested in, but I don't think she had acted on it. Despite everything Nastia had done to try to bring her out of her shell, Neve was – at her very core – rather shy."

"I must admit I'm a bit confused, Ms. Aldrin," Rossi said finally, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"How?"

"Well, you opened you house to Nastia, but you don't seem all that fond of her," he observed.

Autumn blushed a deep crimson. "No. No, that's not it at all. We just come from two very different points of view, but I don't dislike her at all. I don't dislike any member of the Breakfast Club. We were very close," she said. "We practically became one another's families. We even sat _shiva_ for Joey last winter."

"_Shiva_? I didn't realize he was Jewish."

Autumn sighed. "I guess his parents were fairly devoted orthodox Jews – his grandparents even came over here from Europe in the early thirties to escape the Nazis."

"But his parents died when he was a teenager. He remained devoted after they died?"

"No. That's the really weird thing. I didn't even realize he was Jewish until after he died. When he died, Nastia called all of us together and told us that he wanted us to sit _shiva_ for him, since he didn't really have a family of his own. You see, usually the immediate family sits _shiva_ for the deceased, and like I said, we became a family while we were at USC."

"A traditional _shiva_ lasts for seven days and has a complex set of guidelines for mourners. That's quite a commitment for a group of young people," Rossi said.

Autumn shrugged. "I guess so. We weren't all that concerned about it. At least I wasn't. It was Joey's last request – the least we could do was honor it."

"Who participated in the _shiva_?" Hotch asked.

"Well, me, of course, and Nastia. Neve, Charlie and George even came in for the week."

"I thought George lived in DC?"

"She did, for a while," Autumn replied, but she paused, thinking. "Actually, she split her time between New York and DC. She's an actress, you see and so she did some parts in theater productions in New York and when she didn't have a role, she came down here. She usually'd crash with me, since we were roommates in college too. But about a year ago, she decided to move back to LA – she's been trying to get a part on a TV show or a film and I guess she thought she'd have better luck in LA."

"None of you are Jewish, are you?" Rossi said.

"No. Why?"

"I would think that you'd need some sort of rabbi or religious official to help you observe the _shiva_, if none of you were familiar with the practice."

Autumn blushed and glanced at her desk, tracing the outline of the magazine's title on a mock-up. "We kind of did it under the table."

"Under the table?" Hotch knit his brow. "What do you mean, under the table?"

"Well, an orthodox rabbi would probably look unkindly on a suicide and even more unkindly on a group of non-Jews holding the ceremony. So we held it ourselves, without much outside help. Traditionally community members and those from the wider family prepare meals for the mourners, so we had friends help us there. But it wasn't synagogue-sanctioned."

"Did Nastia say why Joey would want such a religious observance when he had previously showed little interest in religion?"

"He found religion," Autumn said simply. "It was strange, but true. I guess he grew very interested in his faith while he was at UCLA. Right before Joey died, Neve mentioned to me that he was thinking of studying comparative religion at Georgetown. It was pretty out of character. At least for the Joey I knew at USC. As far as I could tell then, he was more or less an atheist. Nastia's father, you know, is a minister and every so often, Joey would make a comment like 'I can't believe your father believes this garbage' or something like that. He wasn't religious at all back in college."

"And Neve didn't know the source of this transformation?"

"She was as stumped as I was. She didn't believe he was really serious. In confidence, she compared him to the Emperor Constantine."

Rossi nodded. "The Roman emperor who converted to Christianity on his death bed. Just in case."

"Exactly. She thought it represented a manifestation of paranoia more than a fervent belief in the power of the practice."

"How did Joey's new-found faith affect his writing?" Hotch asked.

"Not much. He didn't publish as an atheist and he didn't publish as an orthodox Jew."

Rossi sighed and glanced at Hotch. "I think that's everything we have for you, Ms. Aldrin." He handed her a business card. "If you think of anything we missed, please give us a call."

"Of course. I want you to catch this pervert who did this to Neve."

Rossi had reached the door when he realized he was still holding the copy of the magazine he had been reading in the waiting room. He held it up to show Autumn. "May I keep this?" he asked.

"It's yours."

Hotch and Rossi returned to their SUV in silence and remained quiet for the duration of their trip back to Quantico, digesting their meeting with Autumn.


	6. Southland

**_Standard Disclaimers Apply. _**

**_As ever - big, big thanks to my readers and especially to my reviewers: LoveforPenandDerek and Green Penguin. I love hearing from y'all - you always make me smile. _**

**_I have a confession to make - I wasn't planning to have some of my characters from "Requiem" make so lengthy of an appearance, but as I worked on this chapter, I realized I couldn't resist. If you have any questions or experience some confusion, please refer to "Requiem." :) And, as always, enjoy. _**

* * *

Before it was a city, Los Angeles was an idea.

- John Buntin, _L.A. Noir_

The image of Los Angeles by the 1950s was…that of a wasteland: in the cold, hard city one was overwhelmed by emptiness, desolation and despair.

- Tina Olsin Lent, "The Dark Side of the Dream"

_**CHAPTER SIX**__**:**_

_Southland_

Detective Kim himself was waiting for Reid at LAX, a testament, perhaps, to the detective's regard and gratitude to the BAU. Reid shook Kim's hand in greeting.

"Dr. Reid, it's good to see you again," Kim said as the two left the air-conditioned comfort of the terminal in the direction of short-term parking.

"Likewise," Reid agreed, distracted momentarily by the howling winds whipping around through the tunnel created by the departure drop off a level above them. He struggled in vain to control the unruly curls that the wind teased into a corona around his head. "You tend to forget about the Santa Anas when you're away from the city," he remarked.

Kim nodded, almost apologetic. "At least there haven't been too many forest fires yet." He led the FBI agent to a silver four-door sedan and the pair fell silent as Kim concentrated on leaving LAX without getting into a wreck. Reid pulled a pair of sunglasses from his messenger bag, craning his neck for a glimpse of the ocean. Every time he returned to the southwest, to the sites of his youth, he felt slightly itchy, like he was wearing a particularly thick, scratchy wool sweater. He felt his mouth go dry and his tongue grow thick as his stomach twisted, as if he expected those who used to torture him without mercy to suddenly appear and tether him, once again, to those obnoxious yellow uprights. It was an irrational feeling, he was well aware, and he could all but hear Morgan's voice carefully chiding him to relax.

But that voice actually belonged to Kim, who was attempting to restart a conversation now that they had left the environs of LAX. Reid blinked and turned his attention away from the window.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

For the briefest of moments, a frown flickered across Kim's face but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and Reid had to wonder if perhaps he had imagined it, subconsciously stamping his own concerns onto the detective.

"I asked you where you're staying."

"Oh. The Hyperion?"

This time the frown on Kim's face wasn't imagined. "That's a little out of the way. Didn't you guys stay downtown when you were here a few years ago?"

Reid nodded. "We did, but a friend recommended this hotel to me and I thought I'd try it." He was surprised at how fluidly he was able to lie and wondered if Kim actually bought it. He had never considered himself a particularly adept liar but perhaps obfuscating the truth was a skill all drug addicts developed.

Whatever the case, Kim didn't question him. Instead, he asked, "so how exactly did you end up here? I wasn't aware that your team had been invited in on any of our cases."

Reid shrugged. "I'm not here on any of your cases. We're actually working on a case in DC."

"But there's an LA connection."

"That's right." Reid proceeded to explain the particulars of the two DC murders and some of his own questions about Joey Hennessey's connection to the deaths. That was when he broached the subject of Allison Walters.

Kim nodded. "I remember her," he said, contemplative. "She died around the time you guys came out in 2006, right?"

"A couple months before – January."

"That's right. January. It was a strange case, if I'm remembering it correctly."

Reid shifted in his seat, pausing momentarily to adjust his seatbelt. "Did you investigate her death?"

"No. I followed the case, since it was investigated out of my precinct, but I wasn't active in the investigation. I did sit in on Hennessey's interrogation, though."

"Oh?"

"I was curious about the guy. The entire city was at the time. He was something of an enigma. He didn't say much when he was interviewed on television or in magazines, so I wanted to see if he'd say something."

"What do you remember about it? The case, I mean. You said it was strange. Why?"

Kim shrugged. "Honestly, the Walters case was weird because of Henneseey. He was a character. I know, I know – we're full of characters. But Hennessey… Hennessey was a chameleon and very, very observant. He was clever too and he created a persona that his readers wanted. You never really felt like you knew who he was – he was always projecting a façade."

"You looked at Hennessey, Reid said, trying to prod Kim along.

"Of course. We had to. When the murder is practically lifted from the guy's book verbatim, you can't ignore that. So yeah, we brought him in. But he didn't do it."

"Why do you say that?"

"He was a kid, Dr. Reid. He might have been troubled, but he wasn't a killer. And like I said, he was projecting a persona. He wanted his fans to think he was some brash, devil-may-care bad boy. But he was really just another tormented writer who spent most of his day questioning his own talent. He would have taken credit if he killed her. He needed the attention."

"And it was never solved?" Reid asked.

"No. I always thought that the killer was someone who was obsessed with Hennessey and wanted to capture his attention by acting out the pivotal act in the book. But I had no idea who that overexcited fan might be. The killer covered his – or her – tracks very well. Virtually no trace evidence. You'll probably want to look at the case files yourself, right."

Reid allowed himself a smile. "You read my mind, Detective Kim."

* * *

Several hours later, Reid was lost in the contents of a file box full of police and ME reports, crime scene photos, various news clippings and other murder investigation accoutrements. He had arranged these items on the conference table that took up most of the small room. Reid figured the table must have been moved into either earlier that morning or late last night, when the LAPD was alerted to Reid's impending arrival – he had noticed a swatch of carpet a deeper blue than the rest, suggesting that the desk that had shielded the carpet from direct sunlight had recently been moved out. He had noticed the spot upon arrival, and he now found his eyes wandering to it again as he tried to mentally sort through the information the day had thus far yielded.

Everything contained in the reports more or less confirmed what Garcia had told him yesterday. Allison Walters had died as the result of twelve stab wounds on January 15, 2006, and her killer had carved "traitor" on her stomach. Reid peered once more at the crime scene photos. According to the coroner's report, Walters had probably died as the result of a single wound, to the ascending aorta, above the heart. She had bleed out rather quickly after that wound was sustained. The coroner also noted that this wound alone was extremely deep. The other eleven were much shallower, tentative even. The report had made no attempt to explain this observation, but Reid didn't need an explanation. The murderer had been inexperienced and probably didn't derive that much pleasure from the act of killing. The placement and depth of the wounds also indicated randomness and haste. Take away the other wounds, and the carving, and Reid would have profiled this death as a crime of passion. Was Walters murdered by an angry or spurned lover who then continued to stab the body and added the "traitor," inspired by _Every Little Thing_, still on the bestseller lists?

That explanation made sense, even in light of Tabitha Lawrence and Neve Williams' murders. Serial killers rarely stopped killing for so long a period of time – though it wasn't completely out of the question. Foyet was proof enough of that. Illness, injury or a jail stint could also take a killer off the map for months, even years. But even rarer was a killer who completely left his comfort zone. D.C. was a long way away from LA and most serial killers were loath to even kill outside of their city or neighborhood – an area they knew and could perhaps even control.

Something still bothered him, and he knew it would be dangerous to ignore that niggling voice. He was struck by the date of Walters' death. January 15 was the day that the body of Elizabeth Short – more infamously known as the Black Dahlia – was discovered. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but given the parallels between Elizabeth Short and Faye Reynolds, and, of course, her doppelganger in _Every Little Thing_, Madeline Chase, the character who ostensibly sparked Walter's death, it was a striking coincidence. And like the Black Dahlia, Walters was killed elsewhere and moved. Walters was found in an alleyway in South LA, in Hyde Park and the LAPD found little evidence of blood. Given her chest wound, she would have bled out quickly, and it would have made a mess. There would have been copious blood evidence.

He stood and stretched, glancing around the room for a city map. Finding the room depressingly devoid of anything at all, Reid stepped out of the office in search of the bullpen. A young officer soon came to his aid.

"Can I help you, Dr. Reid."

He nodded. "I'm looking for a map of LA."

"The city or the county?"

"Uh, the city, I guess. I'm trying to get my bearings straight. I used to go to school here, but that was up in Pasadena and I was pretty young, so I didn't do much exploring…" he trailed off when he noticed her bemused smirk.

He felt his cheeks flush. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

She laughed. "Just a little. We've got a map over here." She led him down the hall into the bullpen. "Are you looking for any place in particular."

"Hyde Park."

She pointed the neighborhood out and he leaned forward into the map. "That's interesting," he murmured, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he momentarily forgot the officer at his side.

She stood on tip-toes to peer over his shoulder. "What's interesting?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Thank-you. This is perfect." Returning to his make-shift office, Reid felt his head spinning. Hyde Park, and the neighborhood where the Black Dahlia's body was found – Leimert Park – were both in South LA. Another connection. But what he found most interesting of all was that University Park, the home of the University of Southern California, was also in South LA.

As he was coming to realize, everything kept circling back to the Breakfast Club.

* * *

The Hyperion Hotel, located not in South LA, but in Echo Park, was built in the mid-1920s, when the burgeoning motion picture industry still filmed there. It was a monument to the Art Deco style and therefore the façade was almost ostentatiously geometric. The building rose skyward, sharp lines drawing his gaze up. He was instantly reminded of the GE Building at the Rockefeller Center, in New York. Inside, the architecture softened to the lyrical lines of the Art Nouveau. While movies moved to Hollywood and Echo Park was today one of the most densely populated areas of LA, the Hyperion, with its lavish gardens and expansive grounds, managed to maintain the aura of a bygone era.

But Reid hadn't selected the hotel for its architecture or its history. Instead, he chose it because Joey Hennessey had chosen it. In _Every Little Thing_, the Hyperion Hotel is where the protagonist first meets Madeline Chase.

Truth be told, Reid was slightly surprised to find out that the hotel actually existed and now wondered why Joey had picked this hotel, out of the hundreds of thousands in Los Angeles. What was the significance? Or, perhaps, the better question was, was there a significance at all? Judging by the book – which Reid had read twice that morning – Hennessey seemed to do everything with deliberation. His words seemed as though they had been weighed carefully. Allusions, when he made them, where relevant rather than self indulgent. Meditating on Hennessey's writing, Reid had come to the conclusion that there must have been something about the Hyperion that spoke to Hennessey enough to include it in the book. And so, just as he had come to LA, Reid went to the Hyperion, looking for answers.

He brought with him the evidence box from the LAPD. Before he left the downtown station, Reid had convinced Kim to let him "borrow" the materials, though now, as he crossed the oak floors with marble inlay, he was asking himself why he had wanted them at all. After all, he did have an eidetic memory – already he could probably recite most of the reports off the top of his head. But the same niggling feeling that had been omnipresent since this case landed on J.J.'s desk told him to bring it back to the hotel.

Juggling the evidence box, the over-packed duffle he had brought from D.C. and his messenger bag, Reid finally made it to his room, on the fourteenth floor. He dropped everything onto the extra double bed along the nearest wall before plopping on the other one, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stared at the bed. He was overcome by dual emotions, dueling for supremacy in his hyper-organized mind.

The first was a nearly fatalistic sense of tragedy. He had spent most of his morning and the early part of the afternoon with the cold case file on Allison Walters. She had been a nursing student with virtually no family. When the case went cold, her body had been cremated and a few of her friends had spread her ashes at Glacier National Park, where Allison had hoped to one day hold her wedding ceremony. The only proof that she existed was in that box. How sad, he thought, that the sum total of a person's life was piled in a cardboard box and lost on a shelf in the basement of a police station.

On the other hand, he also felt annoyed. It seemed as though he was seeing everything through a veil or a fog. He could just make out the shapes of the facts he so longed for, but they were out of his reach. The situation made him angry. Uncooperative witnesses were par for the course, but normally if someone yelled at them long enough (Morgan) or stared at them until the intensity cracked them (Hotch) or simply got deep enough under their skin (Rossi), the witness would eventually talk. But when the witness was dead? Reid moaned aloud and flopped backwards on the bed, closing his eyes. He let his mind wander, hoping that in nothingness, he might be able to come up with something.

* * *

The sun hung low in the western sky, casting blood-red light through the smog-chocked afternoon air. Lena stared at the horizon while she waited, seeing but not exactly processing what was going on around her. Instead, she watched the sky, unnerved by its ominous color, and wondered if the fire season had already begun. She remembered many similar sunsets, in falls past, when the thick smoke plumes from nearby forest fires perfumed the city with cedar and the Santa Anas drove everyone mad, whistling through the canyon and the brain. Sometimes she couldn't understand why anyone would want to live here.

"Ma'am?"

Lena blinked and turned to the porter, slightly nonplussed, her internal monologue disrupted. He held out a white card to her.

"This is you parking stub. When you want to leave, call ahead – maybe ten or fifteen minutes – and we'll have your car waiting here for you."

She nodded and thanked him, taking the ticket and tucking it into her bag. She passed him a tip in what she hoped was a discrete manner before wheeling her suitcase into the air-conditioned hotel lobby. Inside, she was met with a barrage of sights and sounds – she found herself mentally recoiling from the cacophony. For late on Tuesday afternoon, the lobby was surprisingly crowded. As she made her way to the check-in counter, she passed a pair of Japanese businessmen in dark suits, waiving their Smart Phones in the air, passionately discussing something in their native tongue.

A young family passed her, headed towards the elevators. The parents spoke to one another in rapid-fire Spanish. The father was pushing a stroller occupied by a sleeping toddler; an oversized pair of Mickey Mouse ears drooped over his eyes, balanced precariously on the bridge of his nose. Their daughter, clearly as exhausted as her brother, trudged a few paces back, oblivious to the fact that she was treading on the hem of her frothy blue princess dress with every step.

Lena, meanwhile, busied herself with checking her e-mail and voicemail once again, as if twice on the runway at LAX and once more at the baggage claim hadn't been enough. How did people ever waste time before we realized we could access the internet on our phones, she mused, scrolling through her work messages with disinterest. She paused to read another late press credential request for the Miami game in two weeks time and made a mental note to forward it to Alicia later. Then, without even realizing she was there, she stumbled upon the voicemail from Dr. Reid, the one she had been sort of ignoring – or at the very least, avoiding.

She listened to it again, and found herself curious despite herself. The fact that Joey Hennessey had somehow come up in relation to an FBI case intrigued her and she found herself redialing Reid's number. Should this disconnect between my actions and my desires concern me? she wondered as the phone rang, though she didn't dwell on the question long. Her experience with psychology was more or less limited to the pop psychology books people had recommended to her to help her understand athletes. They didn't help.

"Lena!" The FBI agent's voice surprised her – she must have been hoping for his voice mail.

"Dr. Reid." She paused and the silence began to drag towards awkwardness when Reid didn't say anything. "I was returning your call," she added at last. "Sorry about the delay. I've been out of town, so I've been bad about answering my messages." That last comment was unnecessary, she censured herself. She had to stop filling silences with irrelevant words.

"That's okay," he volunteered. "Do you remember Joey Hennessey?"

"Um, yes, sort of," she said, shifting her shoulder bag as the line moved forward.

Another pause. "What does that mean?"

"I was a few years ahead of him. He didn't really get all that famous until after I left LA."

"Oh."

Lena frowned, noticing a familiar silhouette near the elevators. "Dr. Reid, are you in California?"

"Yeah, LA. I'm following up some leads."

"Are you staying at the Hyperion?"

Silence. "How did you know that?"

"Look over at the check in." She hung up and waved to him as he glanced in her direction. He hurried over to where she was standing.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted. "Don't you have to work?"

She surveyed him, taking in his rumpled hair and tall, lanky frame. He was well over a head taller than her, even when she was in heels, and she literally had to look up at him. "It's out bye week," she said, aware that this pronouncement would be greeted with a blank stare. "Every team gets a week off during the season. This week is ours."

"And you came here?"

She nodded. "I like to take in a USC game, see old friends. I have some business here too, so…" She trailed off. "So, I'm here."

"I see."

The line shifted forward again and Reid waited while Lena checked herself in. When she had received her key and left the reception, he spoke again. "I was on my way to find something to eat. What to come with?"

"Uh…" She was caught aback by his sudden request.

"I'd love to talk to you about the book and USC. Sadly, I didn't get around the city much when I was at Cal Tech."

"You were at Cal Tech? When?"

He nodded. "About fourteen years ago."

She cocked her head and wrinkled her brow, doing some quick calculations. "Where you there for a science fair or something?"

"No. I went to college there."

"You went to college when you were thirteen?"

"Well, twelve, technically. I turned thirteen that fall."

"What are you, some kind of genius," she asked, the words tumbling from lips.

He blushed, averting his gaze. "Some kind, I guess." He shot her a sheepish smile.

Lena stepped back, suddenly nervous. No wonder Reid had always seemed so incredulous of her profession. It must have appeared rather ridiculous to a genius. "Uh, I really need to get rid of all this stuff. And I have some calls to make…" She glanced at her watch. "Oh, I guess it's too late, it's almost nine back home. But I should probably… I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful. Good luck on your case."

She took off towards the elevators, the staccatoed taps of her heels echoing around the wood paneled lobby. Reid was left alone, a frown etched on his forehead. He might have been a genius, but when it came to women, he simple couldn't figure them out.

* * *

**_$64,000 and the rest of the day off (metaphorically speaking) for they reader who correctly guesses the inspiration for the Hyperion. :) _**


	7. The Departed

**_Standard Disclaimers Apply._**

**_As ever, many, many thanks to my readers and especially my dear reviewers, LoveforPenandDerek, emzypemzy, and Moon Raven2. Also, congrats to Moon Raven2 for correctly guessing the inspiration for the Hyperion - "Angel." I just had to give a nod to my favourite LA TV show! Thank-you for being patient on the update. But I keep on dreaming about California, so I guess that meant it was time to post another chapter! :)_**

* * *

"There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sandstorms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to the flash point."

---Joan Didion, "Los Angeles Notebook"

_**CHAPTER SEVEN:**_

_The Departed_

That evening, Reid had a conference call with the rest of the BAU team. He knew that, with the three hour time difference, it was after nine in Quantico and he felt a stab of concern that the rest of the team was in the office so late. In an attempt to assuage the strange feeling, he launched into an overly detailed soliloquy about the Allison Walters case file.

"Take a breath, man," Morgan interrupted finally.

Rossi chucked at the younger man's exuberance and took the break as a chance to fill Reid in on the information from Autumn Aldrin. "It sounds like this little group of theirs lived a pretty bohemian lifestyle during college, but all went straight after they graduated. Joey Hennessey even found religion."

"He was born again?"

"Not into Christianity, no. Apparently his parents where Jewish and he adopted the religion a year or so before he died."

Reid frowned. "Hunh."

"Does that mean anything to you, Reid?" Hotch asked softly.

"I don't know yet. It could be important. Anything else?"

"Prentiss and I worked on victimology," Garcia said. "And we came up with practically squat."

"As far as we could tell, the only links between Tabitha Lawrence and Neve Williams is that they both were women in their twenties and both lived in DC," said Prentiss. "They had different hair colors, different builds, Tabitha had a child; Neve didn't…"

"That's barely enough to build a profile off of," Reid mused. "Tabitha had a child?"

"Yeah."

"How old?"

Reid could hear the scraping and shuffling of paper as Garcia arranged her notes. They must have been in the conference room, separating Garcia from her omnipresent computers. "I'm not sure," she said finally. "I want to say six or seven."

"Could that child have attended the school where Neve taught? Maybe that's the link?"

"We'll follow it up, but I'd be surprised," Morgan said. "Neve worked at a fairly exclusive school."

"Maybe there was family money," Garcia suggested, trailing off.

"So what does this mean for our profile?" Reid asked.

Morgan sighed. "I think we're at an impasse. We have too many variables at this point. We talked about the femme fatal theory before you left, so that's a possibility. But on the other hand, this guy could just hate women."

"Then, of course, there's the issue of the carved word traitor on all the victims," Prentiss reminded the team. "That has to have some sort of significance, otherwise he wouldn't repeat it."

"And then, there's the issue of Joey Hennessey's book," Reid said. "Maybe the unsub's a copy cat killer – of either the murder in the novel, or the historical murder the novel was based on – or a rabid fan."

"Reid, do you think Allison Walters was killed by the same person who killed our other two victims?" Morgan asked.

"I don't know," Reid admitted, sighing. "There's a lot of paperwork to wade through. I spent most of the day on it today. But if it's the same unsub, he must have followed the Breakfast Club to DC. Maybe it was someone they all knew?"

"Or maybe it was a member of the club." Morgan cleared his throat. "Which leads me to the other reason I wanted to touch base with you. We need you to interview another Breakfast Club member."

"Okay, who?"

Another pause. "George Sullivan."

"Sure, okay. She's in LA?"

Garcia piped up. "Yup. She's an actress, better know to the public as Georgia Day. She's on a new, popular medical drama…with Lila Archer."

"Oh. Lila. She was on a medical drama?" He remembered faux beaches and bikinis, not gurneys and lab coats.

Garcia giggled, maybe a little too loudly. "That show was canceled. Now she's on this show, _Heart Beats_."

"Oh. Well…I'm…I'm sure it'll be okay."

"Good," Morgan said. "I'm glad to hear that. Garcia's going to send you the contact information for George Sullivan's publicist. Try usual channels first, but feel free to throw your credentials around if you run into trouble."

"_Heart Beats_ shoots at the Paramount lot on Melrose," Garcia added. "You know, it'd be pretty sexy if you showed up at the set, badge and guns blazing. Lila would eat you up…"

"Isn't it getting kind of late by you, Garcia?" Reid asked, trying to tie up this conversation before it got any more embarrassing.

"Anyway, Reid, try to talk to George as soon as possible," Morgan said. "We'll continue to puzzle out the profile."

After a few more minutes of farewell pleasantries, Reid hung up and flopped back onto his bed, considering Lila. They had fallen out of touch not long after the BAU had solved her case. The relationship – if what he and Lila had could be called a _relationship_ – had been fleeting and fragile, like a house built on sand. He was attracted to her, certainly, the way young awkward men were attracted to popular blonde women. Women like Lila were his weakness and always had been. High school should have taught him better, but sure enough, when Lila entered his life, he was smitten. For him, the rush had come from her attention – he was used to girls like Lila ignoring him, smirking and tittering behind their hands as they watched him, taking in his out-of-style clothing, horn-rimmed glasses and mismatched socks with scorn.

Lila had been different. Lila had been interested, had been _interesting_. But he had doubted her and had doubted that she valued him for him. He didn't think she loved Spencer Reid, she loved what Spencer Reid stood for: the full power and wrath of the FBI. He was her knight in plaid armor – he had saved her. She didn't love a person, she loved a symbol. And perhaps she realized that. After all, she didn't call him either.

Anyway, he didn't relish the idea of being weekly tabloid fodder. He worked for the federal government; he clung what little privacy he had left.

He tried not to think about Lila and concentrated on Allison's file for a few more hours. Eventually, he fell asleep, surrounded by papers and dreamed of something incredibly important, that he forgot when he awoke.

* * *

After breakfast Reid called George Sullivan's publicist and left a message. In the gift shop, as he compared maps of the metro area, he wondered how long he should wait before heading to Paramount. He hoped that some sense of duty – or terror – provoked by a call from a government agency would spur the publicist into action, but he highly doubted it. He disliked the idea of arriving unannounced at the TV set. In fact, he had fashioned the image of a quiet meeting at an obscure café or even at someone's office in an attempt to influence fate, but all these thoughts succeeded in conjuring was an echo of his mother's voice:

_"If wishes were horses, Spencer…"_

He had repaired to the hotel patio and with his freshly-purchased map and was marking various locations of interest when his phone jingled. He nearly dropped it in his haste to answer it.

"Dr. Reid? This is Lena Lopez."

"Oh, hi, Lena."

"You were expecting someone else." He noticed, not for the first time, that half of her questions were intoned like declarative statements. He wondered idly how she had developed the habit.

"Just an update on the case. What can I do for you."

She hesitated. "Well, I was thinking. About Joey Hennessey, of course, and I realized that I know someone you can talk to, someone who knew him much better than I did. Can you come to the University today?"

"USC?"

"Yeah."

He shrugged and couldn't believe his luck. Here, now, Lena seemed to be presenting him with precisely what he needed – an excuse to avoid the _Heart Beats_ set, and Lila Archer. "Sure. I have some time this morning."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the hotel. How long of a drive is it?" He refolded the map, mentally plotting out his drive.

"It took me about a half hour this morning and traffic might be lighter now, I don't know. Do you know how to get here?"

"Um."

She laughed and gave him directions. "It's pretty much a straight shot, but give me a call if you run into trouble."

* * *

Lena had directed him to Taper Hall, a sprawling brick building on the east side of the campus that housed most of the liberal arts faculties. She was waiting for him near the main entrance to the building, wearing sunglasses and fidgeting with her Blackberry. He was beginning to realize that she seemed to always have to keep her hands busy, and because of that nervous tick, he wondered if she was a recovering smoker. She cocked her head at him as he approached, studying him.

"Aren't you a little hot?" she asked in greeting, taking in his deep purple long sleeved dress shirt, tweed pants and matching tie. The day had dawned stagnant and oppressive and even now, before noon, the heat was surging towards 90 degrees.

"I run cold," he replied. In truth he was a bit uncomfortable at the moment but he knew as soon as he stepped inside, the air conditioning would chill him enough to make his clothing practical. Air conditioning didn't seem to be as much of a problem for Lena, who wore a simple black short-sleeve blouse and a matching skirt.

She nodded and led him into the building and up to the fourth floor. Sure enough, the AC was turned on full blast. "I know you've probably talked to Joey's friends and family, but I thought you might want to meet someone who knew Joey more…professionally."

"Okay..."

"So I arranged a meeting with Dr. Estella Grace, one of the tenured faculty members in the English department. She's studied California literature at length and is something of an expert in the Los Angeles novel, especially the crime and noir genres."

"I didn't know such a specialty existed," Reid said.

Lena smiled. "From what I gather, it's a rather small field. But, regardless of what you think about the specialty, Estella has the unique distinction of overseeing Joey's thesis."  
"How do you know these things?"

"Unlike most people, I actually read my alumni newsletters." She shot him a coy smirk as they paused in front of an office door, plastered in newspaper clippings, comic strips and black and white postcards of 1940s Hollywood. Lena knocked and stood back. The door swung open and a tall woman with sharp features greeted them.

"Lena, it's good to see you again!" Dr. Grace beamed at her. "I was so pleased to get your call this morning. And this must be your distinguished friend from the FBI." She brushed past Lena to grip his hand in a surprisingly strong handshake. "Remind me of your name again, young man?"

"Dr. Spencer Reid," he muttered.

"Doctor! Is that an MD or a PhD."

Reid paused. "Erm, PhD. Three of them, actually."

Dr. Grace whirled back to Lena. "I'm quite impressed, Lena. This one's a keeper." Lena glanced away as Dr. Grace ushered them into her cramped office. "I'm sorry about the mess," she said cheerfully, "but I'm pretty much convinced that disorganization is an English professor's curse. We're a rather scattered lot, all in all."

The office was lined from ceiling to floor with a wealth of books. Most were novels, with some criticisms interspersed throughout the collection. And like all good English professors, Dr. Grace had several editions of the same novels. Reid felt as though he was transported back to college, when he'd sit in his professors' offices and take note of all their books. If he saw the same book in multiple offices, he'd go home a read it for himself, certain that it was important.

Dr. Grace leaned forward on her elbows, staring over the rims of her glasses at the two of them. "So you want to know about Joey Hennessey, hm?"

Reid nodded. "A friend of his was murdered in DC, we think it might have something to do with Joey."

"Indeed." Grace glanced at Lena and then back to Reid. "Murder did always seem to follow Joey."

"What kind of a student was he?"

Grace crinkled her brow as she phrased her answer. "Joey Hennessey was very intelligent, but he underperformed. He was a slow reader and I don't think he really liked what he was reading anyway. We – as a department – were concerned when he declared an English major…until we read his writing, that is."

"That made a difference?"

"Yes, of course. Have you read his book?"

Reid nodded.

"He possessed a rare genius. The way he could combine words and commit them to the page was incredible. We have plenty of students who pass through the creative writing classes who are serviceable writers, but Joey outshone them all. We used to joke that he was the reincarnation of William Faulkner and Dashiell Hammett.

Lena shifted slightly in her seat and shot Reid a quick look. For a brief moment, a shadow passed over her visage. Clearly – at least to Reid's honed profiler senses – Lena didn't agree with Dr. Grace's evaluation. But she remained silent and the frown was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Grace continued, oblivious to the exchange. "It's a pity he died so young. It's always a shame to loose such a powerful talent."

"Maybe he thought he thought his work was finished. You know, like Hunter S. Thompson?"

"No." Grace shook her head so vehemently that the long cascading earrings she wore caught in her hair. "He was bursting with ideas."

"Then why kill himself?"

"I don't know. He always seemed so tormented. He had an artist's temperament; it helped inspire his writing but it made his life a challenge at times."

"Lena said you oversaw Joey's thesis," Reid said.

"I did."

"How did he choose Faye Reynolds' death a subject?"

Grace paused in thought. "Actually, when we first met about the project, in the spring of his junior year, he didn't have a subject, he just knew that he wanted to write a novel for his thesis."

"Which is quite ambitious," Lena interjected, neither questioning nor stating.

"Right." Grace turned her attention to Lena with an air of surprise, as if she had forgotten there was a third person in the room. "Usually undergraduates are not required to produce a manuscript of the magnitude that Joey gave me, but as I alluded to earlier, Joey was a very special student."

"So when did he develop the premise?" Reid asked.

"He came to me with it in the fall and by that point, the book was completely plotted out. Very little changed from the initial outline he gave me and the final plotline in the novel."

Lena raised an eyebrow and Reid blinked in surprise.

"He came up with the entire thing over the summer?"

"Yes."

"Did that seem odd to you?" Reid asked, a theory already blooming in his clever mind.

"Not entirely." Grace glanced at her desk.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know if you noticed this, but Joey chose to echo a resurrection motif throughout the book, and this struck me as a little odd."

Reid leaned forward. "Why?" he pushed.

"Joey didn't strike me as very religious. I never heard him talk about religion or faith before he started the book and it wasn't a theme that he dwelt on in any of his earlier writing. It's a theme we see from time to time in the poetry workshops especially but he never expressed an interest in religion at all. So, yes, I was surprised when he utilized resurrection so thoroughly in the book."

Reid and Lena shared another look. "And he didn't tell you where the idea came from?"

"Not really, no. When I asked him, he said he had been reading noir over the summer and wanted to try his hand at the style." Dr. Grace paused again and tapped a finger against her lips. "You know where you might want to look, if you're interested in the Genesis of the idea?"

"Where?"

"The Special Collections Department at the Doheny Library. When Joey died, all of his personal papers were donated to the school. I believe his journals from the period are a part of the collection there. They might prove more illuminating than I am."

With that comment, the interview appeared to be over. Lena and Reid didn't speak until they were back outside, walking slowly towards the library.

"Don't you think it's kind of strange that he came up with the entire plot of the book over the summer?" Reid asked finally.

"It's definitely suspicious," Lena agreed. "If only because the topic seems rather far afield."

"He could have bought the plot off of someone," Reid continued, thinking out loud. "God knows there are enough writers in this city. And he would have had the money, since he had a nice inheritance from his parents' estate."

"He could have stolen it," Lena replied flatly.

"Yes. That's a possibility too." Reid lapsed into silence. Could the original plotter of the book also be the unsub? The murders couldn't be revenge, unless the unsub knew that the members of the Breakfast Club – or Neve, at the very least – was privy to the transaction. Or theft.

And all of these questions begat yet another. Could the unsub, and not Joey Hennessey, have written _Every Little Thing_?

"You're very quiet," Lena observed after several minutes of silence had passed between them.

Reid smiled. "I'm just trying to understand."

"_That_ I can relate to."

They passed a clutch of students, laughing together and showing one another apparently hilarious text messages. Reid watched them, wondering for the billionth time what it was like to be "normal."

"Do you miss it?" he asked Lena as they turned a corner, nearing the library.

"USC or college in general? Or LA?"

"Any or all of the above."

She fiddled with her hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. "LA? No. It was fun for a few years, but I couldn't live here forever. The traffic and the Santa Anas are enough to keep me from ever wanting to relocate here permanently. And as for college? I miss certain friends, of course, but I don't really miss college itself. Why dwell on the past, you know?"

He nodded.

"What about you?"

"Nah. I was here for a reason and once I had met my goal, it was time to move on. Plus I enjoy what I do and the people I work with.

"How pragmatic. Here's the library, by the way."

"Named for the LA oil tycoon, I'm guessing?"

"His son, actually," Lena said. "He was murdered – or perhaps commit suicide – in the 30s and his father donated the library in his honor. It was quite a scandal, the richest man in LA losing his only son under suspicious circumstances."

"I bet."

Inside the library, Lena excused herself to talk their way into the special archives. Dr. Grace had mentioned something vague about maybe calling ahead and securing them access to the papers, but Lena didn't seem particularly convinced of her help. So she was now leaning against the circulation desk, using whatever magic had won her the Patriots job to get them a chance to see Joey Hennessey's journals. A few minutes later, she returned to where Reid was standing, a poorly hidden grin on her lips.

"They're going to let us in," she said. "It wasn't all that hard to get us in," she admitted under her breath a few minutes later, as a librarian led them downstairs, where the papers were kept. "Apparently they haven't had time to completely catalogue them yet, so I guess they're hoping you might help then do their job."

The librarian led them midway down a fluorescent light-lit hallway to a room equipped with a table and a few chairs. One wall was lined with shelves and most of the shelves contained multiple cardboard storage boxes. Other boxes rested on the floor around the table. All in all, there were at least a dozen boxes, maybe more.

"These are the Hennessey papers," she informed them.

"Which ones?" Reid asked, glancing about.

The librarian frowned. "All of them."

"Everything in this room was written by Joey Hennessey?" Lena asked in disbelief.

"I imagine there's a poem or song in one of these boxes by someone else," the librarian said dryly, turning on her heel as she spoke.

"Wow," Reid said, crossing the room to examine the boxes on the top shelf.

Lena sighed, leaning against the doorway. "It's kind of hard to believe that he only one book, given the sheer volume of stuff here."

"I was thinking there was a couple journals at the most. I'm a fast reader, but I don't think I can get through all of this right now."

"What, do you have a hot date?"

Reid turned to consider Lena. "Hardly. I have to go interview another potential witness. Another one of Joey's friends. Actually, maybe you've heard of her – the actress, Georgia Day?"

Lena laughed. "Yeah, I've heard of her. Good luck. Celebrities are nothing but trouble."

Lila flashed in his mind. "I know." He checked his watch. "I guess I better head over to Paramount. Want to meet an actress?"

Lena also checked the time. "I don't suppose the FBI looks too kindly on civilians following their agents around. Plus, I need to call Foxboro anyway." She smirked. "As ever, duty calls," she added, bidding him farewell.

_Unfortunately_, Reid mentally added, retracing his steps out of the library and back to the parking lot. He clenched his jaw as he walked and tried to steel himself for Paramount, George and – though he hoped avoid her – Lila.


End file.
